


respite

by hellebored



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Ace cuddling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, M/M, Nonsexual kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-23
Updated: 2019-11-23
Packaged: 2021-02-25 04:07:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21531430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellebored/pseuds/hellebored
Summary: Jon isn't sure what he is anymore.Martin, well... Martin's always been braver than he looks. Brave enough for the both of them.Post-episode 159, pre-episode 160.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 8
Kudos: 198





	respite

Jon feels Martin’s fingers move in small, light circles along the back of his neck. The intimacy of it feels strange, but not unpleasant, and Jon begins to sink into something…actually restful, for once. Normally he sleeps with his back pressed to the wall; Martin is behind him now, mostly warm and soft with the exception of hard knees and cold feet. All it would take is a word and Martin would move, and probably apologise as if he’s somehow at _fault_ for having knees and feet. The thought of it tugs at Jon, rises up remorseful and protective, and he stays silent. 

Martin parts Jon’s shaggy hair and touches the nape of his neck in those same small circles, and it suddenly clicks in Jon’s head. Martin is _tracing_. 

“Martin.”

It comes out soft, abrupt. He isn’t sure what he means to say, not really, but there’s a tightness in his chest and it spreads outward and makes all the muscles in his back go as rigid as the dead.

Immediately Martin’s hand pulls away, leaving a cool draft where his fingers had been, and Jon feels a sharp stab of remorse: he can’t help it can he, pushing away anyone who tries to get close, and Martin– 

_Martin_ , who had isolated himself out of love, who was all alone, and now here Jon is _still_ pushing him away–

Martin cards Jon’s hair back into place. “Sorry. I didn’t…”

“It’s alright,” Jon rasps. _Fuck_ , he feels guilty.

“No, it isn’t,” Martin says; "it– it isn’t. I’m sorry.“

A few long seconds pass. Jon stares at the wall next to the bed, jaw clenched achingly-tight, and then he reaches back and parts his hair in the exact same way as Martin had, as if his fingers are tracing the ghost of Martin’s touch. Then he waits. 

For a moment there’s nothing, just the cold bedroom air on his skin and the soft shallow sound of Martin breathing behind him. Finally there’s a rustle as Martin shifts; Jon can feel him moving closer, and he braces for the return of fingers against his pockmarked skin.

The touch comes softer than before, barely there, and it isn’t until Jon feels a warm breath against the fine hairs on his neck that he realizes that it’s Martin’s _mouth_. Martin’s lips, gentle and deliberate, and Jon knows– he _knows_ that everywhere Martin kisses covers a scar. 

Jon’s breath slides out heavy and bewildered, feeling too hot and too cold all at once. If this is what it feels like to be known then he isn’t sure how anyone survives it. Perhaps–

Perhaps they _don’t_. Perhaps they die, and the thing they’d been before comes to an end, is made new, and that’s why it hurts.

Martin kisses the crown of Jon’s head last, and when he’s finished he settles himself close, soft stomach against Jon’s back, and lays an arm over Jon’s side: not hesitant, exactly, but slow and careful, giving Jon time to draw away if he wants. 

Jon tries to pull in air. It’s hard: his lungs feel squeezed– for a moment his muscles tense to push him up and away from the bed– _too close can’t breathe–_

No. No, _They_ don’t get to take this. In one sharp, decisive motion he tugs Martin’s unresisting arm around him like a blanket, presses Martin’s hand flat over his chest, and _holds_ it there. His heart pounds, sloshes heavy against his ribcage as if it’s trying to break through, and he is, incidentally, down two ribs; but Martin’s palm covers the gap, keeps the sea from spilling over, blankets him.

"It’s okay, Jon,” Martin says; _it’s okay,_ and buries his forehead in the dip of Jon’s shoulder. _I’ve got you._

Jon feels the absurd, hysterical urge to laugh. All the years of his life he’s spent running from webs and here he is, finally gotten, finally caught.

It isn’t going to work, this running away. There’s his… vampiric need to feed off misery, for one thing. The need to know more and more and _more_ , to pry until he knows everything, and it’s only getting worse. He can’t hide from it.

But it’s… it’s alright.

If there is a darkness intent on annihilating the world, maybe there is something else, too. Not some cosmic powers of… whatever the opposite of twisting, wrenching fear is; he isn’t foolish enough to hope for that. But something already here. Something good. A touch that can remake him. 

His heartbeat starts to slow. Martin’s fingers curl slightly under his; he softens his grip and threads his own between them. Martin is safe, and Martin is _safety_ , and whatever Jon is– whatever he’s becoming– his anchor is, well… he might as well have known, but he doesn’t know _everything_. Not yet.


End file.
